


Just two monks from Lindisfarne

by 1000lux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AU, Athelstan and Heahmund are both monks there, Battle, Canon Era Typical Homophobia, Falling In Love, Heahmund is a brat, Introspection, Ivar and Heahmund are the same age, Ivar is a brat, Ivar is there at the raid at Lindisfarne, M/M, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, backstory heahmund, basically season 1 but Ivar and Heahmund are there, fucked-up timelines, heahmund getting into fights, talks about religion, they deserve each other, young!Heahmund
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000lux/pseuds/1000lux
Summary: The beginning of the show at Lindisfarne, only this time Ivar and Heahmund are there with Ragnar and Athelstan.Basically: AU where Heahmund and Athelstan are both abducted to Kattegat and I can go wild on how I imagine Heahmund was like when he was Ivar's age. xD





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maude_Blanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maude_Blanche/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own rights to either the series or it's characters.
> 
> Soooo, I'm back. I've been writing on this story since February now and it's not finished yet, but I thought I'd start posting now.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention something important that came up in the comments. Visually, Heahmund is based on a young Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Chiron in the movie version of Titus Andronicus.

In the beginning  
God created Heaven and Earth  
For what it's worth  
I think he might have created you first  
Just my opinion

(Dua Lipa - Genesis)

***

The monks where all gathered at the window where a great storm was raging outside. There was a low and but ever-increasing muttering among them.

"Judgment day is at hand."

"This is the end of the world!"

A young priest was kneeling in front of the great cross in the scriptorium. He was praying quietly. His blond hair was worn shoulder-length and without a tonsure. He crossed himself, got up and turned to his brothers.

"Nonsense." Heahmund said. "Don't get everyone into a panic. It's a storm."

"Yes, Father Heahmund." they replied dutifully. But immediatelly they started to whisper among themselves. 

"He thinks he's something better, just because his father's a noble and he knows how to use a sword."

"Doesn't think he has to cut his hair like us, because he's a knight. Even though he has his priesthood already and should be so much more pious than us."

"He doesn't know about humility. God will punish him first now that the end is near."

The priest seemed unbothered by it, giving only a small ironic smirk.

Athelstan stepped beside his friend. "But, Heahmund, Jeremiah says so. 'And on that day, the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars of heaven shall fall'. Just look." 

They looked out the window into the dark, violently shifting sea, as Heahmund spoke, "'And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns.' I know the words just as well as you, Athelstan. What I don't believe is that judgement day would affect us in any way. After all, aren't we the servants of our Lord Jesus?" He smiled. "Besides, this is just a storm. When I followed my father into the holy land, I saw sandstorms that swallowed up entire cities."

*

The boat was shaking violently. All the warriors were fearing the wrath of Thor who didn't seem to approve their mission.

At the front of the boat sat Ivar, smiling into the spray of the sea that hit him in the face. "Don't be ridiculous. The gods love Floki's boat. They don't want to sink it."

*

Ragnar had waited long for this day. The gods had had a different fate for him in mind. Instead of seeing different worlds, he had become King of Kattegat. The gods had given him five sons. The two oldest of them accompanying him today on this endeavor, when his dream had finally come true. Now, at 38 he would finally see England, that country that no one had believed actually existed.

"Are you excited, Ivar?" Ragnar heard Rollo ask his second oldest.

"Of course I am, uncle."

Ivar may have been a cripple, but he was Lagertha's child, so Ragnar had loved him from the first time he'd laid eyes on him. And he'd grown up to be smart and cunning, in ways that not even Ragnar himself was.

"Lift me up, Bjorn!" Ivar called to his older brother. "I wanna see better. I think we are there."

*

They were looking out the window as these strange warriors approached the monastery. Their faces painted and covered in tattoos.

"Oh shit!"

"Brother Athelstan!"

"Sorry, Father Cuthbert."

"I think we can all agree now, it's not the apocalypse." Heahmund said, getting his sword. "Get yourself weapons. Anything will do. Pickaxes, Sickles, kitchen knives, hammers."

"Don't be ridiculous, Father Heahmund." Father Cuthbert said. "Our brothers are not fighters."

Heahmund went up in his face. "Well, they better become it quickly. Because, take a look outside, Father, God won't protect us from them."

"That's blasphemy!" The Father crossed himself.

Heahmund looked into the round of fear-addled monks and let out a heavy sigh. "Then go and hide, for the love of God." He turned to Athelstan, handing him his hauberk. "Put that over your cowl." he told him. "And then hide. Don't come out until tomorrow. If we are lucky they just want to plunder and won't burn everything to the ground."

Athelstan grabbed his arm with more force than he would have expected. "What are you going to do?! You don't honestly plan to fight them?! Alone! There are at least thirty men out there, all heavily armed. You will die."

"If I die, I certainly won't die hiding in the latrines."

"Heahmund!" Athelstan insisted again. "Maybe they won't kill us if we don't fight."

Heahmund laughed harshly. "Do they look like they won't kill anyone? Go. Now! And don't hide near any of them." He threw a disgusted look in the direction of the quickly retreating monks. "They will give you away."

"How can you say that?!"

"They're cowards."

"I'm a coward too."

"No, you're not a coward, Athelstan. You're just weak."

Then Heahmund was alone again. Only his sword in his hand. His prized possession and closest companion. Heahmund lifted it to his lips and started praying as he watched the heathen warriors destroy the front gate.

"To you, O Lord, I offer my prayer  
In you, my God, I trust  
Save me from the shame of defeat  
Don't let my enemies gloat over me  
Defeat does not come to those who trust in you,  
But to those who are quick to rebel against you"

*

Ivar watched these strange people. Men if you would even call them that. Running in their weird dresses. He could crawl around freely. No reason to be careful. There was no one to fight.

Just one of them, dressed in a gown like them, but his hair long like their own, he stood there, sword in hand, and fought. And, oh gods, how he fought! Ivar could not take his eyes off him. He could hear the Valkyries sing in the air at every strike of his sword. 

Ivar crawled after him, as he retreated into one of the buildings.

His father and his uncle were in there. And Ivar realised now that the man had not retreated but had come to the aid of one of the other weird priests. The other young man was inside the room, sprawled on the floor, clutching onto some gold-embroidered item. He, to Ivar's surprise, wore a chain mail shirt over his cowl.

Ragnar looked like he wanted to talk to him, Rollo looked like he wanted to kill him. Ivar was curious to see what the warrior-priest would do.

He didn't have to wait long, as the priest charged right between his father and his uncle. Baring his sword just as his teeth towards Rollo, having realised just like Ivar that he was the greatest threat to the little priest on the ground.

Ivar didn't know what had happened here before. 

His father spoke. "I just want to talk, don't be so afraid, little warrior." He smiled. 

The armed priest of course did not understand him, eyes narrowing at the gentle tone of Ragnar's voice, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as his upper lip pulled up unconsciously, baring his teeth in a display that looked as feral as any of the warriors Ivar had arrived with.

"Let's just kill both of them, Ragnar." Rollo took a step forward, but Ivar's object of attention, parried his axe, which was quite a feat, his uncle was a mighty warrior. 

After a short exchange of blows, Rollo threw the priest to the side, with the whole brunt of his blow, the priest still managing to bring his blade between the axe and his body thus saving his own life, even as the impact was enough to rip him of his feet and maybe even shatter his shoulder. Rollo went to reach for the other priest, but already the warrior priest had gotten up again, wincing but still putting his full force into it as his fist hit Ivar's uncle in the face.

"Stay away from him, heathen!" 

Ivar did not understand what he had said, but it did not matter. His uncle was frozen in disbelief for a second. That's when Ivar called out. "I want that one, father!" He shrugged good-naturedly. "You can have the other one, but that one's mine."

Ragnar looked at his son in surprise, then laughed. "Fine. He's yours."

"You won't kill either of them?!" Rollo was outraged. "What's wrong with you?"

"Calm down and take my priest outside, uncle." Ivar said. "And don't let him hit you again."

The priest was still standing there wobbly but determined, once more having brought himself between the other priest and them. He was breathing heavy, blood trickling down his mouth, but he was standing upright, not showing the pain in his shoulder in his stance despite the left side of his face twisting in a pained scowl. His sword was lying on the ground, too far away for him to go and reach for it.

Rollo growled and knocked down one of those crosses in the room. Ivar's priest nearly went berserk then, charging at him again. Rollo just knocked him out this time, with a clean jab to his temple that had the young priest's head snap to the side before he crumpled to the floor. The other priest let out a scream then. Ivar laughed, crawling over to look at the unconscious warrior who'd entertained them so well, the only thing around here that had really been worth the travel, for what it concerned Ivar. He patted his cheek lightly, before he let his uncle drag his limp body off.

The other priest followed Ragnar outside without being asked again, shaking like a leaf but still clutching whatever it was he'd been clutching the whole time.

While crawling out, Ivar reached for the priest's sword and took it with him.

*

Bjorn met the outside. 

"Well that was a whole lot of nothing," his older brother complained.

"But Bjorn," Ivar grinned broadly. "Look at all the riches we found here."

Bjorn rolled his shoulders. "I wanted a fight."

Ivar snickered. "Uncle Rollo got a fight."

There was already a colorful bruise blossoming on their uncle's face.

Now Bjorn laughed too. "The gods favor you, uncle."

Rollo scowled at his oldest nephew, then broke into a laugh too.

*

Heahmund saw him again, as he woke up to the swaying of a ship's hull under him. The one who was a cripple. Who moved across the floor, fluid and dangerous like a serpent. Heahmund had seen him during the battle at Lindisfarne. If you could even call it a battle. Had wondered. How this boy had grown up at all, among these animals. And instead of trailing along behind them, he had been giving commands. Older warriors listening to him. Even the fearsome huge warrior. Heahmund did not know what would happen now. Did only know that he was still alive because of that heathen, who stared at him across the ship. The ship all of a sudden not seeming large enough to keep him away, to pull free of the malicious, searching, pulling look of the other.

*

Ivar sat with the two priests. They had taken more than them, but those others did not interest him. They all sat there shivering and looking pathetic. Which was understandable as they had only those flimsy robes and no furrs. And the sea air was freezing, cold and merciless rain having fallen on them all day.

"What's to happen with us?" the priest his father had chosen addressed him first. 

Ivar was taken by surprise, he had not known that this man could speak their language. He smiled, now he understood why their father had taken him. "Why, we will eat you on our travel when we get hungry."

The priest looked horrified, but Ivar's one just looked quizzically between them. 

"Does he speak our language too?" Ivar asked. the dark-haired priest shook his head. "Well, then translate for him."

He did so. Now Ivar's priest looked at him with disgust. Ivar laughed heartily.

"What's your name?" Ivar asked.

"Athelstan."

"Not yours, his." 

The other priest, despite not understanding his language, met his eyes. "Heahmund." he said.

"Heah-mund." Ivar repeated. "You are mine now." He looked at Athelstan. "Tell him that." Then he crawled off, back to his uncle and brother.

*

"Who is he?" Heahmund asked Athelstan.

"He's the son of the leader. The man I talked to in the chapel."

Heahmund snorted to himself. "That explains that."

"What?"

"Why they listen to him."

*

The next morning Ivar visited his priest again.

"You are cold, Heahmund." Ivar stated, a blissful smile on his face. He reached for the priest's cold face and the other nearly jumped away. "Would you like my coat? Ask me for it."

The conversation wasn't getting any less weird for Athelstan having to translate between them.

The priest's face worked, eyes ablaze with pride battling necessity. "Please, would you give me your coat?" he finally said, looking all the while like he expected to be laughed in his face.

"Of course!" Ivar smiled broadly. "There you go."

Later to Ivar's greatest anger he saw that Heahmund had given the coat to the little dark-haired translator. Ivar contemplated many courses of action, among them stabbing Athelstan, throwing Heahmund over board or just taking his coat back. In the end he took one of the spare furrs they had aboard and threw it into the priest's face.


	2. Chapter 2

They arrived after what felt like a lifetime. And they were sold off like cattle. They got ropes around their necks. Heahmund fought back the first time, getting knocked out only to wake up with it around his neck anyway.

One after another, the bids were made and one by one their brothers were dragged off to places unknown, with the disregard which which a farmer collects his property.

Athelstan and Heahmund were the only ones remaining in the by now empty main hall. And after having shown bravado all up till now, Heahmund felt truly lost. Could all but not to reach for Athelstan's hand in substitution for the calming grip of his sword. And what had happened to that, Lord knew. Heahmund had seen the cripple crawl off with it.

*

"He's the king of this city." Athelstan told Heahmund. "We are to stay at his house."

"What of our brothers?" Heahmund asked. 

"They will belong to other families in this city now."

"Where are we?"

"Kattegat."

*

Athelstan was scared. It wasn't hard to tell. And this time Heahmund couldn't just tell him that it was only a storm. Because this time he was scared too. It wasn't the end of the world, but Heahmund had just as little control over it.

The other brothers came to him as well. Now that Father Cuthbert was dead. Lying slain at Lindisfarne. 'Father Heahmund, what are we supposed to do?', 'Father Heahmund, guide us!'. Heahmund didn't know what to do. For the moment.

He was here. His father and his other brothers in arms who had been with him in the holy land weren't here. There wasn't a wall of other equally skilled and zealous warriors with him. He was alone. And the others were pretty much useless. And still, he would have to save them. Not because he had the highest rank among them. But because he was the only one who could.

How could this have happened to them? How could it be that suddenly they were at a completely different place and the world had shifted, leaving them all hanging on askew, trying to adjust. Athelstan and him were the only ones of the brothers here who'd ever left England, seen different parts of the world, who had ever met people that did not believe in the Lord. But the Muslims in Jerusalem had been civilized. These people here were crude, unpredictable, like animals. And whatever they believed in, Heahmund did not know.

*

They were living in the house of the king and the queen and their sons, as Athelstan had said. It was just a house, though. Nothing like the castle of King Ecbert. Not even like the castle Heahmund's own family lived in. This was a village and could hardly be the whole kingdom they were referring to. But that's what Athelstan had said. King of Kattegat. Maybe Kattegat referred to a larger surrounding and the city in it's center only had the same name.

The queen eyed them with amused curiosity, seeming to think it very funny that her husband and son had brought these two monks into her house.

There were three other sons. All of them eying them with either disregard or disdain. Not the tall one, though, who had been in Lindisfarne. Who fought like a man possesed, with frightening ferocity. He watched them with mellow curiosity. Not as curios as his father, not as hostile as his brothers. To him they were like any other slave. And there were many in this village. These godless heathens.

*

"You clean out the shed." The girl, Margrete handed him a shovel.

"That's low work." Heamund bristled, after Athelstan had translated. "I'm not a fucking slave."

The girl gave him a sneering smile. "That's exactly what you are."

She liked to boss them both around, as they were new. But Heahmund only pitied her. The three younger Lothbrok boys had all taken an interest in her. And she was just a slave after all.

*

Ivar saw his priest clean out a pigssty. He's not happy. The digust on his face more for the demeaningness of the task, than the smell of the contents of the bucket he's pouring out.

Gods, if he could only see the way he's looking at all of them. He could tell the priest was trying to act demure as not to provoke them, but, oh, was he failing! He just looked like he wanted to kill all of them. The other one, he worked quietly, watching them all with ever-curious and attentive eyes. The rest of them, strewn across the village, skitted away like rabbits when you only made a too fast move. This one acted like he was a fucking prince. Ivar really wondered what exactly his position had been at that place they'd been at. He was too young to have been their leader, surely. 

*

Ivar came crawling towards them. "Translate," he told Athelstan. "I wanna talk to him."

"Why do they call you father?" Ivar started. "You're not their father. Nearly all of them are older than you. If you had a child it would be a toddler."

Athelstan translated haltingly along Ivar's flow of words.

"What? No. It's my title. I'm a priest." Heahmund replied dumbstruck.

"But you're all priests."

"My rank is higher than theirs."

"Hmm... So that makes you their father? Like adoption?"

"No, it's just a name. It signifies that they're all children in God and I'm their spiritual father here on earth."

Ivar made a face. "Oh well, alright then." He shrugged, accepting that explanation. "Is that why you fight and they don't? Because you're their father and they're your children? Shouldn't you teach them how to fight too? They're already men, not children."

"No," Athelstan quickly answered instead of translating for Heahmund. "Christian priests are not supposed to fight. We are peaceful and against violence. Heahmund belongs to a special kind of order–"

"I'm not talking to you." Ivar interrupted with a smile that was nevertheless unsettling. Then to Heahmund. "Is it true, are you a special kind of priest?"

Heahmund answered, with the delay of translation. Watching Ivar even though the other couldn't understand his words. "I belong to a military order. We were founded to protect the religious places in the holy land. Our quest is sancted by the holy father."

"I thought you were the holy father." Ivar interrupted, which caused much confusion between Heahmund and Athelstan, as the latter had to translate first.

"I'm not the holy father. I'm a father. The holy father is the head of our entire church."

"So he's your grandfather."

Athelstan was deeply unsettled by Heahmund's obvious exasperation. He looked like he was about to end the conversation.

*

Ivar's had three younger brothers. His half-brother Ubbe who was seventeen, one year younger than Ivar and the twins Hvitserk and Sigurd who were sixteen. All three of his brothers had already been with women, many times. And while Ivar had led troops into battle many times and devised plans that had cities fall, he had never lain with a women, ever, not even kissed one. No one wanted to touch Ivar The Boneless, the insane, genius son of King Ragnar.

*

The crippled viking prince picked him up and beckoned him to follow. He took him to the training field. There three young men where waiting, who Heahmund recognized as the younger Lothbrok sons.

Ivar tossed him a sword. "Fight." A smile. Heahmund didn't need to understand the word, the meaning was clear.

And already the three men charged. They were good, all of them. Very good. It was clear they all had fought in battles before. But so had Heahmund.

He defeated them. Barely. Only just. But he won. Standing there, gasping for breath, his arms aching, face splattered with mudd, his hair hanging in sweaty strands into his face. And he laughed. Happy and free. And the oldest, Ubbe, chimed in. And the other one, Hvitserk patted him on the back.

*

Ivar had been mesmerized. Watching that fight. Not only was it nice to see his brothers getting their asses handed to them, when they'd been boasting that no way was the priest as good as Ivar claimed and no, certainly, they would be able to defeat him no question. Yes, that had certainly been gratifying. But much more. The priest spinning around as if the sword were a part of his body, his hair flying around his face, blue eyes set in concentration. He looked so much like them. A viking. A warrior. Why else would he have refused to cut his hair like those ergi? Because he was a warrior, waiting for Ivar to find him and bring him here. Ivar had never seen anything more beautiful than the priest laughing at the end of the fight, laughing like fighting was the most natural and beautiful thing in the world to him, like it had set him free to do so.

*

It got a little better after that. Or at least, Heahmund thought so. They adjusted a bit better. Things he'd never thought he'd do, became routine.

Then the first ones died. It happened so fast. They hadn't been here so long. Not even three weeks yet. Their brothers, strung up like meat at the butchers. Their cowls torn, covered in blood, dead and gone. Not even buried by these heathens. But that was maybe a blessing. Lord only knew what kind of satanic rites they accompanied their burials with.

Heahmund went to Ragnar himself, Athelstan in tow. "Let us bury them!" he demanded.

Ragnar regarded him curiously. "They are the property of their owners. It is not my decision what they do with them."

*

"We have to flee, brothers." Heahmund stated resolutely.

"But where to, Father Heahmund." Brother Ingnatius asked. "We're in this country all across the ocean. Where would we go?"

Heahmund shrugged. "We steal a ship."

"Do you know how to navigate?" Athelstan asked, one eyebrow raised.

"No..." Heahmund replied. "But you travelled so much, Athelstan, surely you know."

"I don't."

Heahmund considered for a moment. "We abduct one of them in the darkness of the night and force him to take us home." He smiled triumphantly.

"None of us except you know how to fight," Athelstan stated what everyone thought. "We don't have weapons. And everyone in this town, even the women, are warriors."

"What is your plan then?! Wait until they kill us, like Brother Markus and Brother Corbinian?!"

"What's the ruckus?" Ivar asked, having crawled up on them without anyone noticing. 

"We're having a religious dispute." Athelstan stated, completely straight-faced.

"Oh," Ivar acknowledged. "What about?"

"Whether the holy spirit coming over the disciples in the form of flames was meant metaphorically or literally." Athelstan replied, surprising Heahmund very much by how straight-faced he delivered it.

"What did the flames do?" Ivar asked, curiosity piqued.

"What's he saying?" Heahmund interrupted at the same time.

"I'm giving him some story about what we did here that won't get all of us killed." Athelstan quickly said. Then back to Ivar, "It gave the people the ability to speak in many tongues."

"Oh, so the the holy spirit came over you too."

"No, I just learned many languages."

"How do you know?" Ivar asked.

"How do I know what?"

"How do you know the holy spirit didn't come over you. If, say, the flames were only metaphorical." Ivar grinned. "Why's my priest looking so angry?" he asked then, gaze going over to Heahmund. "Is he mad I'm ignoring him?"

"No, he's...errr..."

"Learn my language fast, priest." Ivar continued, holding Heahmund's gaze. "Maybe then you can say some of the things you are thinking at me so loudly all the time."

Athelstan repeated. 

"I will." Heahmund replied, face set. "Faster than you could imagine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More religious discourse. More Heahmund getting into fights. And more Ivar being a little shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! And another one! Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos! <3

Ivar saw his priest stop in front of the place where the dead priests hang from ropes. He crawled towards him.

"Are you scared, priest?" Ivar asked. The priest of course could not understand him.

Heahmund did not know why the heathen tried to talk to him. Why he would look at him with those insistent, intrusive eyes, like he thought maybe Heahmund would understand after all. And maybe, he thought, he did.

So angry, always so angry, Ivar thought. So much injured pride in that one. Where the other ones seemed to know only fear. This one was viking. He'd thought so when he'd first seen him. Glorious. A single warrior. Sword in hand. Awaiting them alone in the deserted halls of that mysterious and stupid place. Flying hair and burning eyes. Waiting to kill and to die. But to do both with honor. And so the gods had spared him. For they did not care if he worshipped them or not. They had send Ivar to save him. When the Valkyries had already been waiting to take him. Circling above him. The only one there worth to be taken by them. And, oh, he'd taken a hand-full of their people, before Ivar had put an end to all that. If not for him, none of them would have gotten any fight at all out of this travel.

*

Ivar could not help himself, he had to bring up again the topic of the dead priests, as it seemed to stay with Heahmund as well, and made him removed in a way Ivar did not like. He had to make Heahmund see that there had been nothing wrong about killing them, so they could all move on from this topic.

"They were scrap. To be thrown away. Worth nothing." They had been working fields and gardens in their home, Ivar had seen the vegetables and fruits. But here they acted like they were good for nothing. Cowering and praying and crying. Admittantly, the other owners did not have a translator. But still Ivar could understand why they'd killed them. It had surely been more fun than overseeing useless slaves.

The other monk looked appaled when he translated, like bile was coming up in his throat as he spoke the words. But Heahmund, Heahmund's face turned cold and dangerous once his friend had finished speaking. The words offered in return were calm but piercing.

"What do you think would happen to you, huh?" Heahmund asked. "If you became a slave? You'd be put down like a litter of kittens. No one would have use for a slave like you."

"What did he say?" Ivar asked.

Athelstan shook his head, staring wide-eyed at his friend.

"What did he say?!" Ivar screamed. He knew that look. He'd known that look all his life. He needed no translation.

"He said you have no idea of the worth these men had." Athelstan finally said timidly.

"That's what he said, really?" He looked at Heahmund, giving him a blood-curdling smile.

The priest only bared his teeth.

Two wolves smiling at each other.

*

"You need to learn how to fight, Athelstan. If we are to flee from here you'll have to."

One of the other slaves had joined in too. A girl. Thorunn. 

To his surprise they were allowed to do such. No one stopped them when they would take exercise swords and train out at the lake, in the little spare time they had.

*

"Priest," Bjorn approached him, seeming vaguely unsure who to address, when he was talking to Heahmund but Athelstan had to translate. Even though, Heahmund realised with elation that he understood more and more when these heathens talked. "You are spending a lot of time with, Thorunn."

"I'm not interested in her." Heahmund was quick to reply.

"Yes, yes," Bjorn dismissed this. "You cannot touch women, I know. We all know. Now, listen," He fidgeted, trying to act cool. "Could you maybe mention me to her? Or I could join your training..."

"Yes, of course." Heahmund hid a smile. "I can do that."

*

Ivar had seen this coming. The fight that seemed to revolve around the slave, when it was really about the fact that his uncle had never gotten over his father becoming king. Rollo wasn't smart enough to see the long plan, too emotional to let things go. It wouldn't do for him to kill the priest when there was still so much information to syphon from the guileless man.

"Hm, the little priest that my brother seems to value so highly," Rollo circled Athelstan on the marketplace. "What's so special about you? I've seen you train. You think you can fight now?" He gave Athelstan a shove.

Even Ivar had been so focused on his uncle that he hadn't seen Heahmund coming, jumping out of nowhere, suddenly tackling Rollo from the side, wrapping the noose he'd been wearing around his neck around the tall viking's throat, strangling him. 

Immediately several other vikings stepped in and pulled Heahmund off him, throwing him to the ground. As Heahmund lay there, lifting his face out of the mud, his eyes met Ivar's who was down on the ground only a few yards away.

Rollo, having collected himself again, pulled his axe.

"Give him a weapon at least!" Ivar called out from his spot on the ground. "It's not interesting otherwise."

It was Bjorn who threw Heahmund his own axe. The priest picked it up, weighted it in his hand for a moment and then changed his stance, lifting the weapon.

Heahmund met the most feared of the viking warriors, who was even now not matched even by Bjorn, head-on. Clearly inferior, with a weapon that was unaccustomed to him, and still he did not hesitate for a second. Showed no sign of fear.

Ivar watched the fight with elation, body thrumming with exitement. It went of for a while. The priest held himself well. Ivar could see the respect in the eyes of the others who watched. He was bruised and scraped, one arm probably sprained, Ivar had seen him wince as he'd blocked an especially vicious blow with his axe.

"That's enough!" Ivar called out. "You wouldn't want to break my favorite toy, uncle!"

Rollo gave the priest a long warning look, slowly lowering his axe. The priest got the meaning and after standing there poised for a moment long, he lowered his axe as well. Rollo glared at his nephew, spit on the ground and turned away.

*

There was no penalty whatsoever. Ivar just took him home, pulling on his noose, that someone had put around his neck again, as he'd still been dazed from the battle (from having actually survided this), like he was a dog. 

Heahmund got food that night as always, was send to sleep on his straw bed. He heard Ivar tell a tale during dinner that had everyone laughing. Heahmund had a distinct feeling they were talking about him.

*

"I see you started learning how to fight." Ragnar said as Athelstan and him were talking in the evening. 

"Yes. Is it forbidden? No one told us so." Athelstan replied anxiously.

"No," Ragnar smiled. "It is not forbidden. At least not by me. But you told me it is forbidden by your god, for men like you."

"That is true."

"Then what changed?"

"I think we all realised we might have to adapt to our circumstances."

Ragnar gave a small laugh. "That is smart. Your friend," he then said. "He already knew how to fight. And still he seems to be a priest. I saw him conduct your– what did you call it 'sermon'?"

"You are right. He is. Just a different kind. There are a certain kind of warrior priests. Remember what I told you about the holy land? He is one of the ones who fought there."

"Where's the difference? You say you have priests, who don't fight. And you have knights, who fight. Why would you need priests who fight in the holy land? Why not knights?"

Athelstan paused. "So their cause is especially protected by God?"

Ragnar snorted. Then, "Why aren't you one of them?"

"Oh, I would have to be a noble for that. Heahmund's father is a lord. He was trained in arms from a young age. At fourteen he followed his father into the holy land."

"What's he doing in your order then?"

"He was send there to study the word of the Lord. He is meant for great things, he will be a bishop one day."

"Because his family is rich." Ragnar concluded.

Athelstan smiled. "He is a good person. He is my best friend. I didn't have many friends there, before he came."

"He is brave." Ragnar agreed. "He would have died for you in that church at Lindisfarne."

"Yes, and that's why he's allowed to be bold and prideful and brash, because he's the kind of man who stands up for his friends. And I know I can always count on him. And I can call myself blessed to have such a friend."

"Don't you think that there's something he sees in you that made him want to be your friend too?" Ragnar replied with a smile.

*

"He's a good and kind man," Athelstan said. "He wants to learn about our culture."

"Yes!" Heahmund said. "So he can better attack us and learn our weaknesses! Don't be stupid, Athelstan."

"I want to believe that there's good in these people."

"But there isn't! They're heathens. I know, Athelstan. You love other cultures, you love learning and you love giving everyone the benefit of doubt. But these men have slaughtered our brothers. This good and kind man allowed it, being their king."

Athelstan looked at him long and sad. "Would they have really fared better among our people?"

"We do not keep slaves."

"No," Athelstan replied and there was an unusual bitter tilt to his mouth. "Do you imagine the peasants working on a nobles land are that much different?"

"You cannot possibly compare–"

"I grew up on such a farm, Heahmund. Why do you think my parents had to give me to a monastery because they couldn't feed us all? Even though they worked day and night. Me and my siblings too. For barely enough to live. And punishment if we didn't have enough to show for. That's reality, Heahmund." Heahmund's gaze meanwhile had wavered, unease filling his eyes. Athelstan continued. "But you are right. We wouldn't have taken them as slaves. No, we would have killed them all. Maybe burned them at the stake."

"We did not come into their home." Heahmund replied stubbornly.

*

Heahmund looked after Rollo. "Goddamned heathen, I shall return home and come here with the entire holy army and defeat you."

"I'd like to see that, Christian." Ivar replied in English.

Heahmund spun around, looking at Ivar in shock.

"Oh," Ivar smiled at Heahmund sharply. "While your friend translated for me all this time, did you think you were the only one learning? I did listen too."

*

Heahmund's grasp on the viking language grew more and more too, realising that their languages weren't that different if you understood the compounds. Still, for now him and Ivar spoke mostly in English.

Heahmund was not sure if this additional level of understanding was a good thing. It made every encounter more dangerous.

*

Ivar was staring after the retreating forms of his brothers balefully. The sparring session had went well, with him prevailing over Sigurd, until the other had shoved him off the tree trunk on which he'd been sitting. Cowardly and pathetic, still perfectly valid in a real fight. Which showed Ivar once more the reasons why he never had been and never would be in an actual fight.

"They look down on you but at the same time they fear you." Heahmund assessed.

Ivar could not fathom where the priest had suddenly sprung from.

"What do you mean, slave?" Ivar asked, smiling benignly.

"Do you really want me to elaborate?" Heahmund asked and Ivar did not know where he took the guts from to talk to him like that. No one talked to him like that. People made fun behind his back, not while he was in ear-shot. The only ones who dared that were his younger brothers. Bjorn would never do that. He was far too mature for that, despite being only two years his elder.

"Why, yes, priest." Ivar dared him. "By all means, elaborate. Tell me what you observed."

"Your brothers are jealous because you have already achieved more than they'll probably ever will. And you, you are jealous of them. Because of what you will never achieve."

Ivar ground his jaw, swallowing down the bitterness that was more emotion than bile. "And you, priest, what are you jealous of?"

Heahmund paused. Seemed to decide what to answer, which let Ivar know that he at least considered telling the truth. He bit his lip. "I shouldn't be jealous at all. But I am." Another pause, meeting Ivar's eyes again. "I am jealous of Athelstan. Because he can accept his life no matter how it turns. Because he is not prideful and ambitious. I am jealous of my older brother who will become an earl one day, who is a knight. And I am jealous of you, because you do not fear the wrath of God as I do."

"I knew it." Ivar said triumphantly. "You want to be a warrior." He made a dismissive gesture. "You do not want to be a priest."

"But I am. It wasn't my choice. But I believe in the Lord. And I accepted this vocation and now I must live by it. There is no turning away from God, no turning away other than to step into eternal darkness. It would be far worse to step away from priesthood than to never have accepted it in the first place."

"But wouldn't your God be far more displeased that someone is serving him who doesn't want to?"

"There is nothing more worthwile in life than serving God, even thinking anything to the contrary would be blasphemous." Heahmund was quick to reply as if it was something he'd learned by heart.

"Then you must be very blasphemous." Ivar assessed.

"Don't say that!" Heahmund shouted and there was true panic in his voice.

"Calm down, priest. I'm sure you did your best serving your god and he's very proud of you. He saved you from us, didn't he? You're still alive."

"Maybe he saved me to protect Athelstan."

Ivar smiled. "No, Athelstan would have been fine. He doesn't need you. But let me tell you a secret. You saved yourself. By fighting the way you did. But, maybe your god gave you the power to do so. So he must love you very much. And, also, he must want you to fight, why would he have given you the ability to, otherwise?"

Heahmund let out a huff, a smile blooming on his face. "You make a valid point, Ivar Lothbrok."

*

"Athelstan told me you went to that holy land of yours when you were fourteen."

"You talk to Athelstan?" Heahmund asked surprised.

Ivar shrugged uncomfortably. "Why not? I sometimes talk to him."

Heahmund laughed. "Alright. Yes, I went there when I was fourteen. And stayed for over three years. My father is a knight who joined the holy war and he took me with him."

"Did you kill many warriors?" Ivar asked, eyes gleaming in excitement.

For once Heahmund couldn't hold onto himself and equal satisfaction shone out of his face. "Yes. I did. They were great warriors. Fighting with bow-shaped swords that are much lighter and much faster than our own. They worship a god called Allah. And three times a day they stop whatever they are doing and pray."

"That must leave them very vulnerable."

"No, we had an agreement with them. We ceased to fight at those times of the day."

"Why would you do that?"

"If there's not at least the most basic respect between us, how would we manage to transport off our injured and such things?"

"I thought the basis of your entire war was that you do not respect each other's religion?" When Heahmund did not reply he went on. "We too travel to foreign countries with our fathers when we come of age. To prove ourselves in battle. See, we are not that different."

"Maybe so. But I'm not a knight. I only fight in the name of the Lord."

"So do we. In the name of Odin, the allfather."

"Yes, but our god does not wish for us to relish in violence. Especially not for his priests. Our lord says, who uses the sword will be struck down by it."

"Yes." Ivar agreed. "Eventually. Naturally. Unless he's unfortunate enough to die a straw death."

"No, you don't understand–"

"Maybe it is you who don't understand your god and his son." Ivar gave to consider. "Either you have it wrong, or you blatantly disregard your god's word. For all you tell me, you fight and you kill for the same reasons we do."

"We are men. We are fallible. But we repent and vow to do better, which is all god asks of us."

"He's very lenient with his mortal children, then, your god. If he let's you let him down again and again. He really must love you. Like a real father, being disappointed again and again by his children."

"He does." Heahmund replied with a small rough voice. "And I do try." Almost to himself. "I try to be better. I want to let go of my hubris and be humble."

Ivar laughed, laughed so hard he didn't even think to ask what hubris was. "Humble?! You? You couldn't even be humble as a slave."

"Pride is a mortal sin." Heahmund informed him gravely, with shame in his eyes.

"It certainly could have been a deadly one for you, hadn't I been just as lenient as your god." Ivar replied still chuckling.

"Why were you?" Heahmund suddenly asked. "Why kill my brothers who are humble to the core, and spare me?"

"They're not humble." Ivar wiped his words away. "They're weak. And you know it, because you didn't respect them either. Do not think I did not see how you looked at them. Why make such a fuss over them once they're dead, when you couldn't care less about them when they were alive?"

"They were human beings. They were my responsibilty."

"Hmmm." Ivar nodded in acknowledgment. "Human beings. Just like me and my people. Just like the people in Jerusalem. And everyone else, huh?"

"I- That's– Yes. Yes, we're all God's children. Some of us are just lost."

"Interesting." Ivar shrugged with an amused grin. "Either way, I don't think you should have to protect grown men. Who are, unlike me, physically able."

"Aren't you afraid to go into battle?" Heahmund suddenly asked, Ivar's words bringing up again the question that had been burning in his mind. "There was no one looking after you at Lindisfarne. You were on your own."

"Why would I be? Dying in battle is something no one would have seen anywhere in my future when I was born."

"So you seek to die?" Heahmund asked, slightly horrified.

"No. Not for a long time. I usually don't engage. I direct. But we could tell you were no threat. Well, you were but how big was the chance that you'd kill the cripple, when seemingly you had decided to fight the biggest and baddest of us."

"I didn't actually decide that."

Ivar laughed. "Do you know now why I spared you?"

"Because I fought?" Heahmund asked bewildered. "You constantly kill people who fought."

Ivar smiled again humoringly, with affection. "Because you fought when no one else did."

*

Not much changed with the new ability to actually communicate. The main difference was potentially that he didn't always need to have Athelstan to translate for him and they were often assigned to different chores now.

But otherwise Heahmund's position hadn't changed. He was still doing low work. Still plotting his escape and afraid that his abilities would rust, given how little time he had to train and that said time was spent training his other fellow monks and some of the slaves.

Sometimes he got to spar with Bjorn, who was still clumsily courting Thorunn (and if a priest thought he could have done a better job of wooing a lady that was saying something). He relished those opportunities, for Bjorn was physically his better, while technique-wise they were equals. Those fights brought Heahmund to his limits and that was exactly what he needed. Bjorn seemed to enjoy the fights too and so they kept happening more often.

Interestingly enough Ivar didn't seem to have much interest in these fights. Whether that was because Heahmund kept losing or because he had a better relationship with this brother, Heahmund did not know.

*

"How long did you stay in that holy land of yours?"

"Four years."

"Were you a priest already then?"

"No, I was ordained there, when I was seventeen."

"Because you'd brought your god glory in battle?"

Baffled silence. "More or less." Heahmund had to concede.

"How does it happen?"

"Another priest let's me take my vows and I pledge to fullfill my duty to my best efforts and live a pious life."

"No sweat then."

"What?"

"If you only have to do it to the best of your ability." Ivar shrugged.

"No, you–"

"Nevermind," Ivar interrupted him. "Why did you come back? Was the war over? Were you injured?"

"The war will never be over." Heahmund shook his head, as if shaking off a dark memory. "I had different duties. I am supposed to become a bishop. So I could not stay there indefinitely."

"Even though you would have liked to."

Heahmund ignored that. "I was summoned back to King Ecbert's court. To resume my duties there."

"Your life is a lot about duty."

"And yours isn't?! You don't even believe in free will."

"Oh yes, we don't. The gods can push and pull us in either direction. But no man can alter another's fate. Yet your life seems to be just as unalterably defined at birth as ours, and yet you do not admit to it. What decision of free will did you ever make in your life?"

"Enough. Where I could." Heahmund replied slightly defensive but also like he wasn't convinced himself.

"I get the feeling every decision of free will you ever made you instantly felt guilty over." Ivar remarked slily.

Heahmund averted his gaze. "You are wrong. My free will gives me the ability to sin. But do not mistake sinning for free will. Free will gives me the ability to do good and to do bad."

"So your god tempts you, to see if you will be led astray. We also have a god who tricks people."

"No, God doesn't tempt us. The devil does."

"Ah, right that fallen angel of yours. Where did all these angels fall to?"

"Hell. Were all the sinners go when they die."

"Hmm. Hell. It sounds a lot like our Hel. Maybe they are situated close to one another."

"Maybe they are the same." Heahmund replied. "For all your disbelief in God, you can't escape hell anymore than we can."

"Does that mean we can go to heaven too?"

"No you can't. Unless you're christened."

"Right, isn't that where you're ritually drowned as a symbolic sacrifice to your god?"

"It's not supposed to be drowning." Heahmund corrected quickly, slightly dismalled. "It's cleansing of your sins."

"Shouldn't it be done regularly then? Like any other bath."

"That's what confession is for."

"Why do they have to confess to a priest when your god hears them just fine when they pray? It's your god or your Jesus who forgives the sins, not the priest, after all."

Heahmund was silent for a while. Then, regarding Ivar with a certain newfound respect. "Maybe people just like to actually hear that they're forgiven."

"Don't we all?" Ivar replied with a wry grin. "Who do you confess to? Directly to your god?"

"Normally to another ordained priest. Now... yes, to God directly."

"Is that okay with him?"

"I think so."

"Why don't you ordain Athelstan? Wouldn't that make things easier?"

"I can't just–"

"Why not?"

Heahmund was silent again. "I don't even know the words."

That made Ivar laugh. He only stopped when he saw the devastated expression on the priest's face.

*

Heahmund saw a certain weakness in Ivar that he did not yet know how to exploit. Ivar looked up to him in some way, was fascinated by him. And Heahmund could see and understand Ivar's reasoning, his motivations. And Ivar knew that and because of all of it, felt somehow the need to take him into his confidence. It was like Ivar compulsively felt like he had to share his inner thoughts with Heahmund and expected the same transparence in return. Which certainly could have been something for Heahmund to exploit. But to what end, as the secrets of a sad boy did nothing to get him off this shore. And the thing was, to an extend he did reciprocate, despite his better judgment. Ivar was a man hard to lie to. His honestly seemed to claim the same from Heahmund. Because on a certain level he shared the same fascination with him.

Heahmund could not deny that Ivar was probably the smartest and most reflected person he'd ever met. That he made him think in ways going beyond his own boundaries as he hadn't done in years. When back at the seminary, the teacher had always said how important it was to reflect on their studies and their belief, to ask questions even if they were painful, even if they had no answer, because only like that they could grow and help those who relied on them to guide them.

Ivar's questions made him uncomfortable because often they touched insecurities and worries he had deep down, or brought up things that Heahmund had never even considered, but had a ring of truth to them, in the astounding logic in which they were delivered.

*

Ragnar was amused that despite Ivar's outward disdain for the Christian religion and it's followers, he seemed to have learned more about it than any other of them (and even Ragnar had tried to learn as much as possible about it from Athelstan).

And now there was his son, more pledged to their gods than Ragnar ever had been, schooled by Floki, and he went around throwing terms of the Christian god around like they were common to him. Yet he seemed not to see the irony himself. For while Ragnar learned mostly to gain information on an enemy, Ivar seemed genuinely curious.

*

"If you were in your Jerusalem till you were seventeen, you could not have spent a lot of time at the temple where we found you."

"Oh, I was there for the last three years, after King Ecbert dumped me there."

"You were dumped there?" Ivar asked.

"Er, no, I used the wrong word." Heahmund corrected quickly. "I mean, of course, I was assigned there."

"Wait, you've been there for the last three years? How old are you?!"

"I'm twenty-one." Heahmund replied with a frown. "How old are you?"

"I'm eighteen." Ivar grumbled.

Heahmund smirked at Ivar. "I'm older than you."

Now Ivar smiled acidly. "How good for you, they didn't just teach you to read, you even know how to count."

Heahmund was bewildered afterwards, how naturally it had come to laugh together.

*

"That's my uncle Floki. He's the ship builder."

"He's a brother of Ragnar too?"

"No. He's his best friend. Come," Ivar tugged on Heahmund's leg. "You have to meet him." He cackled. "He will hate you."

Heahmund only glared at the top of Ivar's head and followed.

"Ivar," Floki greeted him. "What did you bring your Christian for?"

Ivar jabbed Heahmund in the leg. "Pray something."

"This is not a game, Ivar." Heahmund said testily.

Floki approached. "Are you afraid, little priest?"

"Why would I be? The lord is my shield and sword. Maybe you should be afraid."

Floki punched him in the face, so quick and out of nowhere Heahmund didn't even try to block. "Where was your sword and shield now?" He asked interestedly, head tilted.

Ivar meanwhile rolled on the ground laughing.

"When we come back here you will be the first one to go." Heahmund said under his breath in English.

"What did he say?" Floki asked curiously.

"Oh, he just said, that when his people arrive here, you know, the other ones in dresses, he will kill you first. It used to be Uncle Rollo only last week."

They both laughed.

Heahmund just stalked off, not reacting to any calls from Ivar.

*

"You say you hate them and that you do not trust them." Athelstan said one night after they'd finished their prayers. "But I think Ivar's your friend."

Heahmund stared at Athelstan frozen in indignation. "No. No, he's not." he replied roughly. Yet knew all the same why Athelstan would think that. "I care for him as much as he does for me." he added scathingly.

"Quite a deal then."

And, oh, he should have learned long ago to beware of Athelstan's sharp tongue that struck seldomnly but all the more wicked for it. He scoffed. "The heathen thinks I'm a toy to play with. And that, despite everything, makes him a fool."

"If you'd allow yourselves to understand each other–"

Heahmund interrupted him with a sardonic laugh. "Oh, we do. We do. More than anything."

*

"They're going back to England!" Athelstan told him erratically. "They're going to attack our people with the knowledge Ragnar has garnered from me!"

"I told you they can't be trusted." Heahmund said and he shouldn't have felt that much satisfaction at the despair of his friend. "But they are fools to leave us behind. We shall burn this town down and make our escape."

"But there are still people here who can fight. What chance do we have?"

"I'm sure I can rally the other slaves to our side. Many of them know how to fight already. They shall return to find their home as burned and destroyed as they will leave ours."

*

Ivar came to him before they set off. Grinned at him from ear to ear, something gleeful in it beside the naked joy to get back into battle. "Look after my goats well, priest. And the geese."

"And of course the fishing nets." Heahmund supplied drily.

"Yes." Ivar chimed in, beeming even more, showing his teeth. "And of course the nets." He scrawled closer. Then beckoned him. "Lean down. Come on."

When Heahmund didn't follow, Ivar pulled on his rope. 

Heahmund set his teeth and resisted for an annoyed moment, the rope cutting into his skin. Then, reluctantly, he fell down into a crouch.

Ivar grinned at him with satisfaction, reached up a hand to grab Heahmund's chin between three fingers. "Will you miss me?" There was a cheeky happiness in the question that made it seem less daunting than the question from a captor to his prisoner might have been.

"Tremendously." Heahmund replied, baring his teeth in his own version of a sharkish smile.

*

The vikings had been gone for three days. Heahmund was preparing. He'd mapped out the comings and goings of the warriors still there. Their posts and shifts. Had picked out the buildings to light up first for the greatest damage. Had also decided upon a boat that was big enough for all of them and easy enough to sail. One of the slaves he'd met, knew how to steer such a ship.

That's when it happened.

"What is going on?!" 

The ships in the harbor where on fire. People were falling down, arrows in their bodies, everyone yelling and screaming.

One moment Heahmund picked up a child and ran with it to safety, the next he grabbed an axe of a fallen viking, splitting another's head with it. There was smoke everywhere. He moved back into town, where the remaining vikings were building up fortifications. It was bad. He could tell immediately. Ragnar Lothbrok had been too eager. Had taken too many warriors with him to England. Had been too eager to take new lands and left his home unprotected. And someone else had swooped down and taken the chance. Heahmund did not know who it was. The colors and banners of the vikings were all the same to him. Savages all of them. With their painted faces and shaggy hair.

Still they were here now. And there was really only one thing for him to do.

Heahmund gathered the slaves he'd befriended and his fellow monks. 

He didn't know how it had happened. But at the end of the day, he had helped to defend this city instead of destroy it.

He was still covered in gore and dirt, standing among the viking warriors. There was great damage to the walls of the city. Some houses had burned down. Dead bodies littered the streets. But the attackers had been repelled. Had taken their ships and left. And they were still there. Had prevailed.

What choice did I have? Heahmund asked himself. He had had to fight. They couldn't have just run now. They couldn't have waited out, just to have a new master at the end of the day. He'd made the only choice possible. Even though he didn't recall a moment of making any choice at all. Remembered attacks like this from Jerusalem. Falling stones and boiling oil. Screaming people running through the streets.

*

And Heahmund himself had sustained injury. He hadn't even realised until it was all over, until he'd already spent a good time helping to carry away the injureds and line up the dead. Only then had he noticed the steady trickle of blood down his side, the heaviness of his clothes where they were soaked red. He had managed to make it to the medical base, set up in the main hall, announcing his injury before he had collapsed.

After that he was too sick to even think of flight. The moment was gone anyway. Everyone was on alert now.

*

He reared up from his cot. "Where is Athelstan?!"

A woman tried to press him down again.

Athelstan. He hadn't seen him. Had he survived? He repeated the name again and again frantically to the woman.

And then there was, the dark shock of hair bending down to him.

"Heahmund. Everything's alright. We are save."

"Where have you been? I didn't see you after the battle. Are you injured?"

"Heahmund. I'm fine. It's been seven days since the attack. You need to sleep. You are delirious."

"What?" Heahmund fell back onto the bedding, his hand clenching and unclenching. "Where's my sword?" he asked desolately.

"Ivar took it with him to England." Athelstan replied softly. He wiped Heahmund's forehead again with a wet rag. "Let's pray together."

Heahmund was still exhausted and confused. But it gave him satisfaction to see the annoyance with which the vikings took notice of their prayers. Yet no one stopped them. In this world, with most the warriors gone, they had proven their worth and for now they had a certain leeway.

*

Athelstan had realised it soon after the attack. The rebuilding work was distributed among all that were still able. Athelstan was talked to as an equal. No one ordered him around. No one asked him what he was doing when he was on his own. For now he was one of them. But he knew it wouldn't last. 

*

Heahmund was still recovering slowly. Very slowly. But at least he was lucid again and Athelstan was alright. He'd held out steady during the battle. Had gotten out unscathed. He was helping out now with the wounded as were their other brothers who had surprised Heahmund. They had not fought on the first front, but they had not run either. Their contribution had been mostly keeping up the fortifications and dousing fires. But those were important tasks too, that couldn't be valued too highly. None of them had fallen and that was something, for Heahmund wouldn't have known how to justify his actions on that day if he'd payed for the lives of these heathens with the blood of his own.

*

And then Ragnar and his people came back, way too soon, somehow notified about what had happened. 

*

"How did it happen?" Ragnar asked as they'd returned.

"We were attacked by King Harald." Siggy explained. "The Christian priests you have brought, they helped defend the city."

"It is true," Torstein said. "We might not have made it otherwise. The one who can fight, Heahmund, he lead them and some of the other slaves."

*

Ivar came and found the priest at his sick bed, the moment Siggy and Torstein had finished their tale.

"You are still here," Ivar said.

"Don't mock me." the priest replied, sounding more bitter than Ivar had heard him in a while.

*

Ivar was infuriatingly gentle with him. Treating him with a tenderness as if Heahmund had done it for him. Coming to visit him at his sickbed. Bringing him drink or food, more furs when he considered the room too chilly. Always looking at him with that expression that Heahmund had at first taken for mockery. A soft smile. Pride and affection in it. 'My priest', he'd say.

"I didn't do it for you," Heahmund said through a cough. God, he hated to be so weak. He'd been injured before, but never in enemies' hands.

"Ah, I know." Ivar replied, with a gleeful laugh. "Not yet."

"Not ever. There were children there. I did what was right."

"You did so well." Ivar almost purred. "I wish I'd seen it."

"You'd only been in the way, cripple." Heahmund was a little scared himself after the angry, provocative words had left his mouth, attributed mostly to Heahmund's complete waning of patience with his own situation and Ivar's constant presence and entitlement to presume what Heahmund's reasoning for anything could have been.

For once Ivar did not get angry, like at any other insinuation of such, but only smiled humoringly, patiently, as if to see if Heahmund was going to follow up with anymore insults.

And that, that showed Heahmund exactly what kind of invalid bonus he had right now. Ivar treated him like a mixture between a favored pet and a beloved. And he did not know which was more disturbing.

"You should rest, my priest." Ivar leaned in close and Heahmund shrank back, thinking for a surreal moment that Ivar was going to kiss him. But the other was only checking him for a fever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, three hours after I thought I was done, I've now decided that I am done.^^ Here you go!

Athelstan was still angry. He would not forgive Ragnar Lothbrok's betrayal easily. Heahmund had been right all along.

Ivar came to talk to him again one of these days.

Athelstan bestowed him with a cold look.

"What are you so angry about, Athelstan?" Ivar asked with a smile. "Your god won this time. He made us return and we never got to raid your country."

"May he have sunk all your ships with you inside!" Athelstan blurted out viciously.

"Oh my!" Ivar laughed. "Looks like the battle woke a fire in you."

"I'm sorry." Athelstan followed up quickly. He made the sign of the cross. "God forgive me for my hateful and violent nature."

Ivar laughed louder. "Little monk," Ivar unlike the others had, to Athelstan's surprise, actually understood the distinction between a priest and a monk, and referred solely to Heahmund as priest. "You are the furthest from a violent nature I've ever seen. And I was making you a compliment."

"I know well you were. Still it isn't."

"I have to ask you, though. Were you really surprised? Heahmund knew all long. He must have told you."

"He did and I chose not to believe him. For how would I have survived here had I lost all hope in you people?"

"Oh. Heahmund seems to do quite fine." Ivar shrugged with a smile, that maddened Athelstan all over again.

"What do you want, Ivar? I'm done telling you and your father anything." Even though, all Ivar had ever wanted to know were things relating to Heahmund. And Athelstan had seen so much potential in that friendship.

"Now, don't be cross. You planned to escape while we were gone, didn't you?"

"We wouldn't!" Athelstan was quick to reply.

"Oh yes, yes. You certainly would. So it looks like your god doesn't want us to raid your country, but he doesn't want you to leave either."

*

They had and Ivar knew that for a fact, had known when they'd set sail. Because it was what Ivar would have done, had their roles been reversed. But Heahmund had stayed. So the will of the gods was congruent with Ivar's this time. They had worked their will in the most peculiar manner and showed Ivar exactly what he wanted. He wasn't Christian, he didn't just keep things around to look at them, he used them. And it was blatantly obvious what the priest had been born to do.

*

"He should fight for us, father." Ivar said. "It makes no sense wasting such a warrior mending fishing nets."

"Do you think he would?" Ragnar asked, smiling. "Fight for us?"

"If the alternative is dying." Ivar shrugged. "It probably wouldn't take much, he is itching to fight. Look at him."

Ragnar smiled more. "You're already doing enough of that for both of us, hm?"

*

Ragnar approached the young priest on the marketplace where he was working his assigned chore.

"Follow me." he said and the priest, giving him the usual bristling look of distrust, put down his net with more fervour than necessary and followed.

"My son tells me you learned our language."

"That's right."

"I'm trying to learn yours too." Ragnar said in English now. Then back in his own language. "I'm afraid though I'm not as fast as my son."

The young priest did not reply, did not try to flatter him, or insult him either.

They had arrived in the great hall. Ragnar sat down on his throne and beckoned Heahmund to sit beside him, on the throne where usually Lagertha sat. The priest, hesitated for a moment, looking very unsure, then sat and accepted the cup Ragnar handed him. Ragnar watched him as he sat, rolling the cup in his hands uneasily, watching the room, eyes always returning to Ragnar, assessing, wondering, plotting, what to do, what to say, what Ragnar would say, what reply he would expect.

"My son thinks highly of you." Ragnar started.

"I cannot imagine why." Heahmund replied tersely. 

Ragnar laughed. Such a smart young man, so much intelligence and cunning, but his emotions, his temper always got in his way. So different from Athelstan, who watched and waited. It had taken nearly two months until Athelstan had first talked back to him. Athelstan who watched everything with curiosity. Who was so much more fearful than this young man and still adapted so much faster and better.

"You are a great warrior. My son appreciates that. We all do." Ragnar shrugged with a smile. 

Ragnar saw the barely concealed pride in Heahmund's eyes at those words. Yes, a head-strong young warrior. He wasn't going to ask him today, that was for Ivar to do, for it was his son who wanted the Christian's allegiance. All Ragnar wanted to do today was assess this one. Take a closer look at him than he'd been doing so far, for it seemed he warranted that closer scrutiny.

*

"Fight for me!" Ivar demanded, striking out of nowhere like the serpent he so often resembled.

"Fight for you?" 

"Yes!" 

And suddenly Heahmund's legs were grabbed by Ivar and he was pulled to the ground, the other on top of him in no time. And, oh, he was a great fighter on the ground. Twisting and turning at a speed that Heahmund just wasn't used to in this position. The impressive strength of his arms and his sudden mobility giving him an advantage over Heahmund that he wouldn't have had standing.

They wrestled, both more serious than anticipated, neither wanting to lose. And then Heahmund found himself in the violent embrace of Ivar. One arm around his chest, trapping his arms, the other around his throat, pressing him against Ivar's chest. And the other's honey-sweet words, brushing against his ear. "Fight for me."

Ivar grabbed Heahmund's throat and held him there. Just pressed his fingers against the pulse point there and felt the thrum of the blood, as the other had stopped to struggle and they lay in a tense, violent carricature of an embrace, as Ivar waited for an answer.

*

"What are you doing?!" Athelstan asked, as Heahmund followed the other warriors to the ship.

"I'm going with them."

"To fight?!"

"No, to pray for their souls. Yes, to fight! Athelstan."

"But... Didn't you say that they are evil and we had to flee? They betrayed and used us!"

"Athelstan. You were the only one to fall for that. I expected nothing less of them. And we will escape from here. With the help of God. And ourselves. But until then, what does it matter? They're only fighting against their own kind. I don't want my skills to get rusty. And I'm only doing the will of the Lord."

*

"Who are we going to war against?" Heahmund asked on the ship.

"You're asking that now?" Ivar asked amused.

"It's either way to me. I'm just curious."

"King Harald." Ivar said. "Another king around here. The one who attacked Kattegat. He's ambitious. Wants to be king of all Norway."

"When you want to be that already." Heahmund simply replied with a faint smirk.

Ivar wiggled his finger. "You are observant."

Heahmund just smiled, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the ship. This time it wasn't as bad as his first trip on such a boat. He didn't use to get sea-sick on his travels before. But then it had been on a much larger ship and not on a better skiff.

*

When they made camp Heahmund saw Ivar standing upright for the first time. Metal contraptions Floki had designed for him. Unlike the war-cart, something Ivar had been very secretive about until they'd been finished.

"You're actually a bit taller than me." Heahmund commented, as Ivar took a few halting steps.

"You like them?" Ivar smiled, looking almost friendly for a moment, too smug in a way only a teenager could be, to resemble the dangerous man he truly was.

"I think they're smart. People judge you by what they see and they fear what's not like them." He gave a faint smirk. "Even though, I won't be able to make as much serpent-related jokes about you any longer."

Ivar chuckled. "Is that what I am? A temptor?"

"You certainly like to sow doubt where you can."

"I'm glad to hear it's working."

"I never said it did. So far there's nothing for you to reap." It's weird how here, far away from Kattegat they could act around each other like friends. Joke with each other.

*

They were doing a sacrifice before the first battle. Heahmund refused to stay for it. Still his peace was short-lived, as he heard the other approaching while he was praying. He was taken by surprise when Ivar's palm suddenly touched his face, wet from the blood that was now smeared across Ivar's face where moments before it had been scattered droplets. 

"There you go, priest." Ivar said, regarding his handi-work with satisfaction.

Heahmund did not pause his prayer, even as he could smell the tang of blood, could feel it drying on his skin. Half a mask, matching the one on Ivar's face.

"What are you praying for, Heahmund?" Ivar asked, impatient for not having been engaged so far.

It was not a nice prayer Heahmund was praying. It was a prayer of strife, to St. Michael, the archangel, protector in battle. When he'd finished, he finally looked at Ivar. "Given your interest in my God, one could think it is me who's sowing doubt with you."

"I believe in your god the day your Jesus walks up to me and let's me walk." Ivar said dismissively. "When was the last time one of your miracles happened, huh?"

"When was yours, Ivar?" Heahmund returned unfazed.

Ivar simply smiled. "Everytime Thor throws thunder from the sky."

"That's easy to say. But God created the whole world, so every breath you take is his miracle for you. And look at you," Heahmund said, pointing at the metal braces. "You already are walking."

*

Here he was standing, among the viking warriors. His sword finally back in hand, returned to him by Ivar just before the battle. He'd quietly, amusedly watched, as Heahmund had washed off the blood from his face, then he'd given it to him. Something intimate about the way Ivar had placed it in his hands, something unspoken in his eyes, like a promise, a vow. 

And now here he stood. Saying a final prayer. But before long it was impossible not to chime into the feral screams of the other warriors as they banged their weapons against their shields.

*

Heahmund had felt but never truly understood the real danger of Ivar. He'd known it when he first saw him, in an instinctive way in which an animal recognizes a larger predator. But he hadn't been able to truly imagine the extent of it. The true extent of Ivar's power. He saw it now. On the battlefield.

Ivar directed the battle from the lines like a musician, a puppeteer. Predicting the enemy's moves, and everything fell into place. Heahmund hadn't believed Ragnar would give his son so much power, but he understood now why he did.

Heahmund was fighting in the thick of it with all the rest but still he could see the construct Ivar had spun here.

*

After battle, Ivar looked at Heahmund and said. "You are as much crippled in mind as I am in body."

"Excuse me?" Heahmund brought out flabberghasted.

"You too had to live like me. Caught in a life you didn't want, watching all those who had what you wanted. Trapped in a mind-set that doesn't fit you as I am trapped in a body that doesn't fit me."

"I'm not." Heahmund said, mouth dry, voice not carrying enough conviction.

*

Ivar could not sleep that night. Did not want to sleep. Wanted to sustain the memory in his mind as long as possible. Could not wait to see it again. It was the first time he'd seen Heahmund in battle. In real battle. Not the persiflage of it that Lindisfarne had been. It had been everything he'd expected and more. For nothing could be more visceral than reality. The reality of the smell of blood and the arc of a blade that found either metal or flesh to bite into. Nothing could be more powerful than the raw, brutal victory of one warrior over another. The sheer superiority of a singular warrior over each and every opponent put in his way. The joy of it that came with a man answering his calling.  
It had been like seeing a dream, a dream Ivar'd been having all his life. He saw it again now, his dream. In his mind he saw Heahmund, saw himself as Heahmund, on the battlefield, whole and all-powerful, and then they were one and the same. Perfect in every way. A fantasy that made his breath come harsh and his head spin. A rush that he knew he needed to have again and again. And he needed that power. He needed to harness that power for himself. He wanted it more in that moment than he wanted to become king of all Norway. Having Heahmund was closest he would ever get to being whole.

*

It was after the first battle too, that Ivar asked him into the command tent with him and Ragnar.

"What do you know about strategies, priest?"

Heahmund hadn't spent much time making strategies in Jerusalem. He'd just fought. Leading maybe a handful of people, which was tactic more than it was strategy. But he'd fought in many battles for his young age and he'd learned what worked and what didn't work.

It turned out that knowledge proved valuable. And Heahmund learned, learned invaluable things. If he ever got away from here that was.

*

It was before the third battle that Ivar painted his face like those of the other warriors. He was sitting there, beckoning him over. And Heahmund pulled up a stool and leaned his face forward, waiting until the blue-dipped fingers touched his skin, painting twisting curls all over it. Why he let him do it, he did not know. It felt right in that moment.

Afterwards Heahmund turned to him. "Pray with me." As if it was an exchange to be made, for trust given in turn. He wasn't sure himself. Was it about control? Maybe, probably. Him making sure he wasn't giving too much. Reminding Ivar that this was who he was.

Ivar laughed. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you believe my god exists." The words became true the moment he said them. "And you can never have too many gods on your side, can you?"

"Hmm. Maybe you are right." Ivar folded his hands, a mocking smile on his face. "So how do we do it?"

Heahmund smiled as well, kissing his crucifix. Then he folded his hands too.

*

For today the fighting was over. Corpses littered the field between two hills which Ivar had picked, where they'd carefully lured Harald's men. Still it had been a hard-won victory today. Heahmund's legs felt as heavy as his chainmail shirt, the tunic underneath soaked in blood that wasn't his own, as he walked back to where the banners of the raven stood.

There Ivar was, untouched by blood and dust. Not having dealt a single blow today, but still responsible for each one that was struck out here, like Heahmund's blade that had sought and found blood as it always did.

The blue paint on Heahmund's face was sweated off in places, covered in dust and speckled with blood that had painted coils of red that matched as if they were made to be, the face-paint only now truly done. Which made sense in an way that was eerie and, Heahmund had to admit, very viking.

He did not know that it was him Ivar's eyes followed these days during battle. That throughout the coils and tangles of clashes between flesh and metal, it was only him Ivar could watch, like in trance. With his sword that was so unlike theirs, too large to be practical and still wielded with so much ease and grace. Like Thor and Mjolnir, a union of man and weapon. How the priest could put down his piousness and become more beast than man within a moment. Only, that wasn't quite true, was it? He wasn't putting it aside, he harnessed it, as if in only that moment what he was and what he wanted could become consistent. And afterwards he'd be overcome by shame again, could no longer feel pride in what he'd done. Like a hero of legends, struck by Loki with bouts of insanity that stopped him from seeing clear.

Heahmund did not know any of that, when Ivar stepped towards him, wiping some of the blood off his face, looking all the while like he'd much rather lick it off.

"You are perfect." Ivar said. "And I don't know whether to hate you for it or to kiss you."

"How can you say that?" Heahmund asked horrified.

"Oh, right. Hate is a bad thing. You know, Heahmund, seeing as you worship a god who's all about love, you really hate a lot of people. What about love thy enemy, huh?"

"Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Maybe it's you who doesn't understand? If your god doesn't want a mighty warrior, fine. But mine do."

*

They were sitting at the fire with all the others, talking in English though, as if it was just two of them. Once more Ivar ignoring anyone else in favor of turning his overwhelming attention on him. In that way that not only made it seem like but made it obvious that he cared only about what Heahmund had to say, not even pretending to include aynone else in their conversation. It troubled Heahmund in the way that sentiment was shared. And he wondered what it meant this unwaning interest in each other. He'd once said to Ivar, 'I am jealous of you, because you do not fear the wrath of God as I do.' It had been true then and it was true now. For maybe in Ivar he did see what he could never be, as Ivar saw in him what he couldn't be. Was it a competition or an even exchange, their reciprocal give of confidence? Was it a calculated display of weakness, to in turn find those of the other? Not anymore. Not truly.

"Do you regret coming with me?" Ivar asked.

"No."

"Good. That is good. You will fight for me in many more battles."

Heahmund gave a faint snort. "I do not think so, Ivar."

Ivar tutted at him, a shrug, a smile. "It is already decided, priest. Nothing either you or me could do about it."

*

Heahmund had been sitting there, cleaning his sword, when he heard the telltale clang of the metal braces. Ivar sat down behind him, slowly, laborously letting himself onto the stool, then just started to braid Heahmund's hair out of his face, unheralded, unasked. Heahmund startled at the first tug on his hair, but maybe he was too used already to Ivar's sudden and eccentric fancies, for he was truly only startled, not worried. Not worried, with an enemy in his back, baring his neck as if a soldier waiting for the deathblow. It truly must have been that he'd adapted too much to Ivar's moods, that he allowed him to continue, only mildly curious as to what idea the other'd gotten now into his head. Ivar worked in silence, single-minded on his task. Just fingers carding through Heahmund's hair, pads brushing against his scalp, blunt nails slightly scratching in the nape of his neck. Far too intimate and leisurely. But Heahmund had missed the point of denying this, by letting it go on for too long, and now he could just wait until Ivar deemed his work finished. Once more Ivar waving a strange spell around him, with actions that made no sense and still seemed to carry immense, unfathomable importance.

"There." was all Ivar said when he was done.

*

Heahmund wore his hair the way Ivar braided it, wore the paint Ivar drew on their faces like a mirror of each other.

They'd been on campaign for four weeks now. 

The weather was foggy and cold. The beddings were clammy and reeked. And nothing seemed to dry properly any longer. But Heahmund was more content than he'd been in a long time. Four years to be precise. He hadn't particularly enjoyed Ecbert's court. At first he was welcomed with the other knights and treated with honor. But then he had to don his priestal robes again, when all others could carry their swords at their sides. And he hadn't truly cared that Ecbert had officially promised him the diocese of Sherborne, which would bring him position and riches.   
And a few months later he'd been send of to Lindisfarne, to learn how to oversee a monastery. And there, if he was being honest as he only could before God, the father, for he knew everything, he'd felt like he was slowly wasting away. So yes, Ivar, damn him, had been right, he was crippled. By birth, just as the other.

*

The night was quiet, no rain today, but still the trees smelled fresh and intense from the rain they'd received before. It was pleasant enough to spent the night outside, breathing in the aroma of earth and life in general that the woods around them emanated. No heavy clouds tonight to cloak the sky in nothing but grey, but a deep, saturated dark blue and the silver-gold glow of the stars.

A moment of respite in all this. Nothing to remind of the bloody business conducted here, for tonight at least. The beauty of creation instead of the destruction only something as fallible as mankind could consider an art. Someone like the person sitting beside him right now, Heahmund thought with a certain wry humor. Ivar stretched out in the gras beside him, legs for once unobstructed by the metal that Heahmund often thought only hindered his mobility, took away some of his momentum. For Heahmund thought, Ivar was never more terrifying than when he was smiling up at you from the ground, making the world twist upside-down, for who could not doubt their perception when the one standing was truly the one in the dust.

Ivar chose that moment to place another of his well-aimed questions, much like one of his small knives. "Why did the other monks say that you are damned?" he asked. "You are a priest, just like them."

"You misheard." Heahmund replied.

Ivar smiled. "I did not."

Heahmund huffed. "They don't know what they're talking about. I fought in the holy land. All they did was read their scrolls."

"Now, here we agree. So, what did you do that your brothers detest so much?"

"Nothing. I did nothing."

"I heard something. Correct me, if I got it wrong. 'If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable thing. They must be put to death–" He stopped as he saw Heahmund freeze. "Ah, they weren't lying then." Ivar concluded. "We don't have respect for men who don't act like men. But in your case it doesn't matter. You're a great warrior. No one would think that you're ergi." Ivar shrugged like that resolved it.

Heahmund, despite his face twisted in mortification, said sharply. "I don't owe justification to you or your people! My soul is between me and God!"

"Your brothers don't seem to think so." Ivar said with a questioning quirk of his mouth. "Gossiping like old hags, speaking ill about you when you're probably the only reason they've proven any worth at all by now."

"Try not to manipulate me, Ivar." Heahmund replied coldly. "I know my brothers' shortcomings better than anyone, just as my own. I assure you I need no one to point them out to me."

"Very well, priest. I'm sure you know how to condemn yourself better than I ever could. No harm done. I was just curious."

"And now your curiosity is sated."

"Oh." Ivar smiled, even as he turned his gaze back to the stars above them. "It never is."

Ivar did not leave after this revelation, just went back to what they'd been doing before, relaxed and unbothered. And Heahmund sat beside him, frozen in place, no longer noticing the beauty of nature or anything around him actually, other than the man who like a terrible beacon of truth sat beside him.

*

Ivar had not cared, Heahmund realised. Had not cared at all about this news. Had been merely amused about it, as he was amused about everything he could make him uncomfortable with. Heahmund had revealed nothing and would not. And for once in his life the opinion of his brothers had no meaning. Ivar who had the power to condemn him cared not either way, cared only about the one thing that Heahmund undoubtly was. A warrior.

There had been no point to this, Heahmund realised with almost hysteric relief. There were no consequences to come. Like many of the whimsical things Ivar did it had been just to pull the rope that was no longer around his neck. Once more Ivar was fucking with his mind, that's all it was. Obviously it had been too much to ask, to just spend their time here fighting and killing in peace. Ivar always had to disrupt. 

Heahmund thought that was maybe the real reason he wanted to be king. Not to rule. Ruling was boring. Ruling meant steadiness and structure. No, Ivar wanted uproar. Fighting. Wanted to destroy all structure and continuity. Like his gods, who seemed to seek nothing but chaos. Who toyed with the humans to their amusement, like the gods of the Romans and the ancient Greek had done. Ivar would have been great in one of those legends. Heahmund could imagine it. Halfblood son of one of the gods, causing mayhem on earth and cheating the gods in their own games. A mixture between the sphynx, the minotaur and Hercules. Or maybe Odysseus, more likely, the most cunning hero. Achilles with his heel cut, crawling across the floor but undefeated. Yes, Ivar was a man who fit not into this world. He fit into legends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking back to the hair-braiding scene, Boyle from Brooklyn 99 comes to mind: "Washing one's lover's hair is the most intimate of all gifts."
> 
> But, no, obviously it's giving your prospective significant other his sword back. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heahmund sees something he shouldn't have. Ivar comes to a sudden conclusion and makes a move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter:
> 
> Attempted sexual assault (not between Ivar and Heahmund)

They returned to Kattegat victoriously if with considerable losses. 

Heahmund was swepped away in the chaos of their welcome. There was no order to it. No ceremony. People yelling and laughing. A big hubub. And he was part of it, yet not part of it. There were companionable pats on the back from the men he'd fought with, but the only thing welcoming him were the accusatory stares of his fellow monks. Among them Athelstan, who looked both relieved to see him alive and shocked by his appearance. And he could understand why. With his hair still braided (a fact he'd simply forgotten) and his face as grimey as those of the others, after weeks on the sea. Athelstan had never seen him return from battle. Had never seen him with the fire still in his eyes, that he knew would take weeks to simmer down again. He realised now there were still smudges of blue paint on his face, along his hair line.

He seperated from the group soon, returning to the house. Athelstan followed him.

"Are you alright?" Athelstan asked.

"I'm fine." Heahmund said gently, disturbed by the unease his only friend seemed to feel around him. "But I need a bath." He ran his fingers through his hair with disgust. He missed the scented baths of Jerusalem. Cleaning yourself after a battle was important. Cleansing body and soul of the violence you'd experienced and committed. There had been nothing like this on that campaign, where they'd been in the woods, ankle deep in mud. He felt it now,somewhat ashamed.

Hvitserk poked his head into the room. "Heahmund, what are you doing?" he asked annoyed. "Ivar's looking for you."

Seemingly Ivar had sent one of his younger brothers to look for his favorite slave. Athelstan watched Heahmund follow him out, an apologetic look directed at him. As if Heahmund was ashamed of his association with the warriors.   
Heahmund had been like this since he returned. On edge. Something twitchy and feral about him. He'd looked like he fit in, when they'd arrived. With his sword, his braided hair and the fur coat around his shoulders. As he'd jumped off the boat like he'd never done anything else, his boots caked in mud, his clothes dusty, sprays of dried blood all over them.   
It had scared Athelstan. Because it fit so well. Because Heahmund did not seem out of place. 

Later Athelstan saw him again, while he served at the feast and Heahmund was sitting with Ivar, looking ill at ease, yet unwillingly laughing at times at whatever the young viking said.

*

"Are you angry still?" Heahmund asked a few days later. "Because I went."

"I'm happy you're alive." Athelstan replied.

"Do you think it was wrong?"

"You made a pretty convincing case for it before you left."

"But do you think it was wrong?" Heahmund insisted.

"I do not think you should fight with them. But I understand why you would. And I believe we will all benefit from your position."

"I am still a slave."

"I know. But Ivar favors you. And the others might start to see us in a different light through you."

*

Heahmund did not have to go back to doing menial jobs after that. He trained with the other warriors, worked with them. The rope which Ivar had removed the day they'd boarded the ship, had not been returned. He was still a slave but his status was askew. He did not know what it was, and neither seemed anyone else. The only ones who seemed sure of his place where his fellow monks, Athelstan aside. Deep at the bottom of hell. That's were they wanted to see him.

*

Heahmund didn't know what had happened that night. 

First he saw Magrete leaving Ivar's hut. So Ivar had after all claimed his due as one of the Lothbrok brothers. That made Bjorn the only one who hadn't slept with her. What they thought they gained from sleeping with someone who didn't want them, Heahmund couldn't tell. The women Heahmund had slept with had always wanted him, even if he hadn't wanted them. Well enough, sure. But not what he really wanted. Not in the way it could be when he allowed himself.

As he still stood there pondering the disturbing amorous ways of the vikings, Ivar himself came walking out. Walking indeed this time. He was wearing these metal contraptions more often than not, lately. He looked shaken, haunted.

Heahmund walked towards him, which was probably the opposite of the intial reaction he should have had.

Ivar saw him. Looked caught for a second, but still his gaze zoned in on him as it always did, catching and not letting go.

Ivar walked towards him with slow, labored steps. Heahmund thought he was going to walk past him, almost. When suddenly Ivar turned. Heahmund only caught a glimpse of defiant, petulant eyes, that almost looked like they were going to fill, before Ivar grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. Rough and bitter. Full of longing and resentment. Heahmund could not understand either of those emotions. Knew only that in this moment Ivar was more holding onto him than holding him and that if he pushed him away he would fall. Ivar didn't seem like he would be well able to deal with that tonight. So Heahmund stayed still, let Ivar's hands dig into his shoulders and neck, let his tongue roam. And thought about kisses. Thought about the peculiarity of this situation. Thought about their conversation days ago, that had not seemed to disturb Ivar in any way, in that weird, antagonistic hero-worship he seemed to regard Heahmund in. He thought about Ivar, who was nothing but beautiful, if it wasn't for his legs. And even so. Remembered watching him once when he'd sat there, his chest bared, getting a new tattoo on his back and Heahmund had allowed himself to look, still believing himself save in the knowledge of being beyond doubt. Ivar was strange and terrifying. And funny. And Heahmund didn't know if it was cammeraderie or competition between them. Whether he was Ivar's dog or his idol. It wasn't that easy with Ivar. Never, in no way. And this right here wasn't easy either. Except for the fact that it was. And once Ivar's lips left his he would have to think again. Think again what new game Ivar had procured here. And, maybe, it only now occured to him, the whole point of this had been for him to push Ivar away, and he had already lost.

Ivar must have felt him tense for a second, or maybe it was over anyway. But he pulled away suddenly. Looked at Heahmund with a mixture of accusation and trepidation.

"What was that supposed to be?!" Heamund asked, with his own bout of rigtheous-indignation. For as always, a good offense was the best defense. And really, he had done nothing wrong. Except of course his own ungodly urges. But those had been discussed at length already.

"You like men anyway." Ivar said, petulantly. "What does it matter?"

What did it matter indeed? It had not mattered to any of the men who raped any random slave girl they liked. Why should anything matter to Ivar?

Did he consider himself a romantic, Heahmund wondered. Certainly not. A man in his position with his inclinations was an opportunist if anything at all.

Already, uncaring of Heahmund's musings, Ivar had moved past him with a snort. A somewhat dissappointed scowl on his face.

And Heahmund felt no inclination to follow him. He'd already more then filled his quota of unadvisable spur of the moment decisions for the night.

*

Not like Margrete who eyed him like something dreadful and disgusting, Heahmund had responded when he'd kissed him. Had kissed him back. Not with mechanic reluctance like Margrete. And he knew she could kiss differently. He'd seen her often enough with his brothers. 

No, the priest had kissed him back like Ivar had imagined a kiss should feel like. He hadn't even wanted Margrete all that much. He had just been so... desperate. Who else could he have asked than his brothers? And it had been mortifying to do so. The only thing more mortifying had been how it had went. Gods.

He thought maybe he could have asked Heahmund. Maybe he would have said yes to him. But Heahmund was so damn contrary. He liked men but he couldn't act on it. He liked kissing Ivar but got mad at him. Basically everything he wanted to do he couldn't do. Fighting. Fucking. Everything that made life worthwile. Much like Ivar. And Ivar liked him. Liked him a lot. Heahmund was maybe his favorite person right now, besides Floki. And it hadn't felt bad kissing him. At all. So much better than kissing Margrete. Ivar had done it, initially, because he was angry. Because the priest dared to be there in his moment of deepest humiliation. Because he knew it would make the priest uncomfortable. But it had gone so different than Ivar had expected. Had been so much more. More than Ivar ever knew there was. And they had only kissed. And now he wanted to do it again. Wanted to do other things too with the priest. He wouldn't dare to tell if the same thing as with Margrete happened, surely. Not only that. Somehow, Ivar knew that the priest wouldn't tell. Wouldn't gloat. He wasn't petty like that. In some inexplicable way Ivar trusted him.

With him he could try, Ivar thought. He wasn't like the girls in the village, who shied away from him in fear. Heahmund shied away from no one.

*

Ivar did not know how best to approach the priest about this, as the priest was set to be difficult about this. Sin here, sin there. It was tiring.

If he'd hoped the Heahmund would bring it up again, maybe for an argument, or to point out once more the elaborate intricacies of Christian sin, Ivar had been wrong. The priest seemed content to ignore what had happened. His act of nonchalance was a little tentative, the first time they met after the kiss. But the more often Ivar did not mention it the more confident the priest got.

So things had gone back to normal. But normal was not what Ivar wanted. Since the thought had occured to him, he was set on seeing it through. Just as every single plan he'd ever made.

So if Heahmund would not bring it up, Ivar would need to take action. And he would.

*

The priest froze in place when he saw him, putting down the water bucket he'd just poured over himself. His hair was plastered to his face. And his perfect body was... well perfect. 

He stared at Ivar dumbstruck. As if Ivar walking in while he was washing himself was somehow something to be ashamed of.

Ivar took his time walking up to him, took his time too, looking up the priest from top to bottom. Maliciously amused by the other's squirming. 

Ivar stopped when he stood in front of him. He reached for the priest's dick and started jacking him, which wasn't too hard with his wet skin. It didn't feel too different, he'd touched his own dick often enough after all.

Heahmund half fell forward, a drowning gasp tearing out of him. He was hard immediately, his skin warm under Ivar's hand despite the cold water.

It didn't last long, then Heahmund pulled his hand off, pushing him away. Standing there, still hard and flushed and indignated. And also reeling, like there were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he couldn't quite come up with anything anyhow.

"No?" Ivar asked, grinning at Heahmund's errection.

Heahmund found his words again then. "Fucking asshole." He moved past him, shoving into him with his shoulder. Not hard enough to push him over, but enough to show how pissed off he was.

*

Oh, but the priest had looked like he'd wanted it. Had looked like he'd desperately wanted it. And Ivar let the image pass behind his eyes again. His long pale limbs. His startled eyes and slightly parted lips that were pulling in the air a little too raggedly. His cock hard and flushed even through his anger and embarresment. The curve of his ass. The water running down over his chest, stomach, between his thighs.

Ivar could have had him, if the priest wasn't still inclined to be so mulishly stubborn.

And for a moment, in his mind, Ivar indulged himself to imagine his own body whole, imagined how he would have pushed the other to the ground. How the priest would have given in after all, shaking with want. And Ivar would have mounted him as he'd never be able to do in reality. Would have pulled his own breeches down and pressed his hard member against the soft curve of Heahmund's ass. And Ivar was hard for real by now. Heahmund would have rocked against him, a choked gasp of surprise over his own lack of self-control tearing from his lips. And Ivar would have slicked up his fingers with the oil that stood in the bath house, and would have run them over the other's hole, relishing in his shudders. And maybe, maybe Heahmund would have lost control and asked him to penetrate him already. And Ivar would have pushed a finger through the tight ring of muscle quick and deep. All the way in. Taking the other off guard after all. He didn't know what Heahmund would feel like inside, had only Margrete for reference, doubted that it would feel the same (if you could believe some of the talk of the other men). And he would fuck the priest. And Heahmund would want it. Straining against him. Turning around half, to pull him into another one of those kisses. Ivar came into his own hand.   
It worked just fine when he was alone. Usually. He always felt slightly disgusted when he did this, with this body that no one found desirable. It had been harder even, since the fiasco with Margrete. But today, thinking about the priest, it had worked just fine.

*

It wasn't supposed to so hard to own someone you already owned. But ever since the beginning he'd had this compulsive urge to make Heahmund part of his world. He wanted him to be part of his world. And he wanted to be part of Heahmund's world too. Under his skin. 

And maybe, Ivar thought, he could.

"You will get a tattoo, priest." Ivar said, the next morning.

"What for?" Heahmund asked long-suffering.

"Because I said so." Ivar replied with a smile.

"Alright," Heahmund suddenly relented. "I will."

Ivar did not follow as Heahmund docilely made his way over to the man who'd done all of Ivar's tattoos. Ivar wondered of course, why he hadn't put up more of a fight. But he was too excited for the moment, wondering what kind of pattern Gunnar would pick for the priest. He'd be irrevocably one of them afterwards. A mark he wouldn't even get rid of if he ever returned to his own people. Not that Ivar wouldn't do his damnedest to prevent that.

A while later he made his way over there after all. Heahmund was just wiping blood off his chest with a rag. He threw Ivar a triumphant smirk. It caught Ivar's gaze and kept it for a long moment, before Ivar's eyes finally trailed lower.

And there, taking up almost the whole left side of Heahmund's chest, black on pale skin, was a large cross.

Ivar stared for a moment in disbelief. Then he barked out a laugh and couldn't stop afterwards.

He realized one thing, then. His most prized possession would never do anything other than his own way.

*

Heahmund didn't know what Ivar was doing. His looks. His offensive behavior. Was he mocking him for the truth he'd learned about him?  
Maybe he should have known that it wouldn't be so easy. That just because Ivar had seemed to accept Heahmund's vice, it wouldn't end there. Because Ivar could let nothing be. Pulling at other people's scabs until they started bleeding again. Just because he could. Just to see what would happen. The cruel curiosity of a child.

It made Heahmund uneasy, even more than usually. He'd thought he'd sounded out Ivar's moods, as far as that was at all possible. During the campaign, he'd felt that they started to see eye to eye. And now it felt like things were back to the beginning. Was Ivar humiliating him because of whatever he thought Heahmund had witnessed that night when he'd seen him come out of Margrete's chamber? Which he could guess had gone terribly wrong by Ivar's disposition that night and the way he acted around Margrete now, which to other's may have seemed indifferent but for Ivar's standards was other's peoples' flailing.  
Or was Ivar just perversely curious, now that he had that piece of information? For something he didn't know. Or maybe the vikings did this regularly. Heahmund hadn't seen anything like it, but what did he know? Maybe it was allowed if the other was a slave. He had to concede he did not by far know enough about the viking customs to even make an educated guess, when all the values he based it on were from his own upbringing.

*

Heahmund looked at Ivar with irritation. "Stop pushing." he said.

Ivar tilted his head, smiling obnoxiously. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You don't know what you want. That's not a fucking game I'm going to play with you."

"Calm down, priest." Ivar chuckled. "You're getting all worked up."

"That's what I'm talking about." said Heamund viciously. "You think you can push people. You think you can put your finger into people's wounds and press to see how much it'll hurt."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar looked genuinely confused now, which pissed Heahmund off only more. Pissed him off to no end. Cause this game Ivar was playing, was a terrifying topic that had been defining most of Heahmund's life. And Ivar made fun of him for it. When he'd started to consider Ivar somewhat of a friend, no matter how he denied it to Athelstan.

And he grabbed Ivar, ripping him off his feet and threw him to the ground. Pressing his arms to the ground with his legs, he knelt over him. Gaze twisted in all the anger and resentment he had to bury deep inside for so long.

"Don't for one second think I couldn't take you." Heahmund hissed. "The only thing that makes you stronger than me is your position."

Ivar stared at him in disbelief and caught off guard. Then he finally said. "Let go of me. This instant."

Heahmund did. Did no longer know what he'd been thinking.

Ivar pulled the braces off his legs, not able to get up from the ground on his own. And Heahmund was not crazy enough to offer help in a moment like this.

"Take those back to the house." Ivar simply said, indicating the braces with his head, before he crawled off.

*

"You know," Ivar crawled up to him. "You are right. What makes me stronger than you, is my position. You could probably take me. But since you're a slave," He shrugged with a mean smile. "I could do whatever I want to you."

Heahmund met his gaze steadfastly and bitter. "That's right. Are you going to kill me for having thrown you to the ground?"

"Kill you?" Ivar feigned surprise. "Who talked about killing you?" He looked Heahmund up and down.

Heahmund recongized his meaning and let out a derisive snort. "You want to rape me? I could see some difficulty with that."

Ivar saw his look, and pain and shame flickered across his face.

Then suddenly he grabbed one of Heahmund's legs, pulling it out from under him, sending him to the floor, much like Heahmund had done with him the other day. And then they were wrestling on the ground. Each fighting for control with mutual feriosity. And then without knowing how exactly it had happened Heahmund was on his stomach, Ivar on top of him, his body pressing heavily into his.

"I can do to you whatever I want, slave." Ivar's voice hissed into his ear, each word a slap in the face. "Whatever I want."

Then he was gone. And Heahmund needed a moment before he felt strong enough to push himself off the ground, his hair for the moment obscuring his sight, and obscuring his face just the same. Which was a good thing, for so no one saw his quivering lips or his shock-wide eyes.

By the time he'd gotten back to his feet, and brushed his hair out of his eyes, his face was a mask again. And anger was boiling inside him, having overwritten the moment of fear.

*

It had been a joke more than anything. Ivar had been angry. So, yeah, maybe he'd wanted to scare the priest a bit. He'd been hurt. He'd been genuinely hurt by what the priest had done.

It was supposed to be a mean joke. He'd never planned to let it get out of control like that. And now the priest wasn't talking to him. Barely met his eye. Dammit, even Athelstan met his gaze more confidently these days.

He had no reason to feel bad. Heahmund should be the one apologizing to him. Were he any less lenient, the priest would have been killed for attacking him like this.

That's what he told himself. Still he found himself talking to Lagertha the same day.

"Mother," Ivar started. "You're a smart woman and you've fought a lot with father. What's a good way of apologizing without admitting you were wrong?"

"What did you do, Ivar?"

"Nothing." Ivar quickly replied.

She took none of it and stared at him harder, one eyebrown raised. "Did you hurt one of your brothers?" 

"No."

"Did you insult a girl?"

"Uh... yes?"

"Then just apologize."

"No."

She shrugged. "Then suffer in silence."

*

"I heard you like men, priest." Sigurd greeted him. The one of the Lothbrok brothers Heahmund liked least. The only one who hadn't taken his defeat with grace. 

Heahmund was hit by an irrational wave of betrayal that Ivar would have shared that story. Why though? Of course he would. Ivar did not care about him. He was his property. Of course he'd share a joke about him with his brothers.

"You heard wrong." Heahmund replied curtly, as curtly as a slave could reply to a free man. Heahmund's position had changed since he fought for them, but still he was just a slave.

"Hm, really?" Sigurd acknowledged. "Well, either way." He adjusted his crotch. "Now I'm curious. I've never fucked a man."

"I see." Heahmund replied and turned to leave. But Sigurd stopped him as Heahmund honestly had expected. He'd seen violent men play games with the women they intended to assault. Working up to it seemed to be most of the fun for them. When he was fourteen, already in Jerusalem, he saw a man, a religious man, pull away a local girl who'd been serving them food. He'd been taunting her all evening before it too. Heahmund had told his father about it. And he'd said to him that men of certain position were beyond doubt and that he should not speak of it, that piousness was important and the work they did here too. And that making powerful enemies was stupid. Even for a future bishop. Especially for a future bishop. Three days later the man in question had been killed in battle. And Heahmund had thought that men might look away, but God didn't. And he'd prayed for God to forgive his sinful thoughts. And when two weeks later he still hadn't been killed in battle, he'd decided that God might not approve but still did not consider it a killing offense, or at least left the killing in this case to his mortal children. Either way, that's how Heahmund was not surprised and knew what Sigurd was after.

"I did not say you could leave, slave."

Heahmund stayed where he was.

"Bend over, slave."

Heahmund did not move, dared the other to try and enforce his order, when Heahmund knew he could take him. The shame would be Sigurd's in a situation like this. He would not wish to tell anyone that he got beaten by a slave.

"You will do whatever I say." Sigurd sneered, strangely unbothered by Heahmund's refusal to obey.

"Why would I do that?" Heahmund bared his teeth.

"Because otherwise I will turn to your little dark-haired friend."

The fight went out of Heahmund, like his strings had been cut. He could not watch out for Athelstan all the time. He did not know Ragnar well enough to know whether he'd care. And Athelstan, while quick-witted and braver than he gave himself credit for, was too sweet and soft still to handle this situation. He'd probably go along with it out of fear for himself and his friends.

Heahmund had resolved himself with his situation as he leaned across the overturned cart, his forehead touching the wood. The slave girls here bore it all the time, walking away with no dignity lost. He could do the same. He would have to do the same. For there was no other option left for him as to bear it and move on. For certainly, there would be a day when he'd get to kill Sigurd Lothbrok for this shameful act. And Heahmund did in this moment not care for things as forgiveness. The only thing that comforted him in that moment (small comfort though it was), was the fact that no one at home would ever know of this. That his shame would be his shame alone to bear. If he would be able to move on from this. He had to. And maybe one day, what happened here wouldn't matter any longer.

"Get away from him!" Suddenly Ivar's voice sounded. Loud and menacing.

Ivar hadn't even reached them yet, but still, like from the mere pull of his voice, Sigurd let go of Heahmund and stepped away from him, his dick already out of his pants, eying his brother with a mix of bellingerence and fear.

Heahmund righted himself too, pulling his pants back up. His face burning with shame. His heart in his throat. Fingers shaking and movements stuttering.

"What the hell do you think you were doing there?!" Ivar yelled in a way Heahmund'd never seen him. And Ivar could be scary, despite his disability. He'd seen him often enough, leading troops into battle on his battle cart. Screaming in an almost inhuman voice, like the blood that would later be on his face, was already dripping from his voice. Like he was personally conjuring the deaths on the battlefield with his words. So, yes, he knew Ivar could be scary. But now he didn't seem to be in control any longer. Shaking with fury like he was soon going to melt the metal around his legs with it. There was a cold, inhumane rage in his eyes, that in this moment Heahmund wouldn't have held it past him to strike his own brother down.

"Ivar," Sigurd whined with a certain petulance, like he didn't quite know what he'd done wrong but nevertheless wanted nothing right now but to be forgiven.

"Did I say you could touch him?" He wasn't yelling any longer. But his voice sounded like flesh being peeled from bone.

"But..." Sigurd stuttered. "We shared Margrete with you."

Ivar gave a sharp, metallic laugh, like the comparison itself was ridiculous.

And Heahmund saw Sigurd wince as if he'd just realised his mistake.

Ivar gave another laugh, as blood-curdling as the first, shaking his head. Watching his brother with a deadly version of leniency, for there was no mercy, no pity in his eyes. "Oh, Sigurd, Sigurd, Sigurd. Do I have to explain to you what you did?"

Sigurd shook his head, shoulders hunched, gaze lowered. Tense, like he couldn't quite believe that he was reacting this way.

"No. I don't." Ivar agreed, mouth twisting in disgust.

As if this had been the final dismissal, Sigurd fled the scene.

Ivar advanced on him then and Heahmund felt another bout of irrational fear.

Ivar looked still angry. But normal again. Face pinched in displeasure, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him once, before looking him over with another cursory glance. 

"Why the fuck would you let him do that?!" Ivar accused. "Are you dumb?!"

"He threatened Athelstan." Heahmund replied numbly, too worn-out to come up with anything but the truth.

"Gods, what a conniving, little, spineless dog." Ivar hissed in disgust. Then to Heahmund, still angry but somewhat reassuringly, "Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to Athelstan."

"Why do you care?" Heahmund suddenly blurted out. "You told him about me." More accusatory than a guy who wanted to fucking sink to the floor and stay there, should have had the energy to.

"What?" Ivar asked. "What about you? I talk about you all the time."

"About my sinful inclinations." It was sad that even in this situation where he should have had graver worries, he could not bring himself to say it.

More irritated confusion on Ivar's part. "Why would I talk to my dumb brothers about that?"

Ivar was a good liar. Nevertheless Heahmund believed him. Thought: Of course, Ivar had heard it from the other monks, why wouldn't Sigurd have? Probably even via Margrete.

"Oh." Heahmund dumbly acknowledged.

Ivar shook his head in exasperation, then pulled on Heahmund's arm. "Come on, now. Let's get you home."

Heahmund had absolutely no wish to go to the house where Sigurd lived as well. As if on cue he suddenly doubled over and threw up in the hay. 

As he knelt there, shaking, spitting out only saliva anymore, mouth tasting of acid, and throat burning, he felt Ivar's hands on his forehead and rubbing his neck, murmuring something that Heahmund hadn't the energy to translate right now and just blurred past him.

Then straight from his shock-addled mind, "You threatened to do the same thing to me. Why did you stop him? Is it because you don't like to share?"

"Gods." Ivar rolled his eyes in irritation. "Like I ever would do something to you. You're acting like a fucking girl."

"What would you know of girls?" Heahmund shot back. "Besides Margrete." Oh God, what was he doing?

Pain shot over Ivar's face. His features twisted and tensed. Then his gaze fell on Heahmund again and he closed his mouth. Expression softening. Voice strained, but calm, almost as if trying to sound soothing. "Come on, priest. I'm not going to touch you and no one else will. Neither your little friend. You have my word on it. Do you believe my word?"

"Yes." Heahmund's voice was equally strained, coming out thinner than it usually was.

"Yes?"

"Yes." Maybe not always, maybe not for good reason, but in this moment Heahmund did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this was a hard chapter. But with Ivar's whole emotional clumsiness and everything we saw in the show concerning the treatment of slaves, I felt like the whole consent topic actually needed to be addressed. I didn't plan to do it quite that way, but the situation kinda spiralled out of control the longer I wrote on it.  
> With the whole subliminal rivalry between them and their respective vulnerabilites, I felt like it was bound to clash in such a way. Because we all know that Ivar's pride is easily injured and he's not the most sensitive guy when it comes to other peoples' feelings. The whole Sigurd scene was to dissolve the accrued conflict, so some baseline of trust could be re-established between Heahmund and Ivar.  
> I felt like, this being an AU, with both Ivar and Heahmund still being a lot more uncontrolled and headstrong, and neither really mature and careful enough, this had to go down south first, before an actual attempt at establishing a relationship could be made. We have Ivar with literally zero relationship experience and a bag full of hangups, and Heahmund who's deeply conflicted and most of all in an extremely vulnerable position. There was no way they could actually flirt or court or talk this out like normal human beings. So, I hope I portrayed that in a somewhat believable and reasonable way.
> 
> As concerning the warning in the Notes, I'm well aware that Ivar's rather physical threat also qualifies as sexual assault (Also probably the bath house scene, even if it wasn't intended that way by Ivar). But I didn't want to scare readers off into thinking that that was the direction the story was going.


End file.
